Four Minutes
by The Writer's Life
Summary: The four minutes Sherlock Holmes spent in exile were the worst of his life.


**A/N: Hello, everyone! I want to thank everyone who has given me such nice reviews on my Merlin stories. Here is my first go at Sherlock. I've had this idea in my head for awhile, but it's just a matter of getting it out. Reviews are appreciated and loved - thanks, everyone!**

**Four Minutes**

_0 minutes, 10 seconds_

Sherlock boarded the small, white aircraft without looking back. He already knew what he would see if he did. He couldn't bear to look back at John and Mary, nearly eight months pregnant with John's child, a girl, as John had informed him. He couldn't look at John and know that he would never see him again. The consulting detective settled into one of the few seats on the plane as the engine roared to life.

_0 minutes, 25 seconds_

Sherlock adjusted his coat as he fastened his seatbelt. The plane lifted off, and the detective felt an uncharacteristic ache in his chest. The likes of Donovan, Anderson, Mycroft, and even Lestrade had been telling him for years that he didn't have a heart. What was this feeling, then? What could be causing the hurt he was feeling?

Deep down, Sherlock knew. Only one person could make him feel so deeply. John Watson.

_0 minutes, 45 seconds_

Sherlock leaned forward, unable to relax. His thoughts were on John, now, and everything that had happened. He had known that Mary could lie and probably had at least one secret that she was keeping from John, but he had never dreamt that she was an assasin. As soon as he found out, his train of thought had traveled one rail - protect John. He had gone to extremes by breaking out of the hospital, exposing Mary's true colors, and in the end, shooting Magnussen.

_1 minute, 0 seconds_

He hadn't shot Magnussen for Mycroft. He hadn't shot Magnussen for Lady Smallwood. He hadn't even shot Magnussen for Mary and the baby. He had shot him for John, and John only. As long as Magnussen was alive, John would be in constant danger.

So, he had acted without thinking. That sent chills throughout Sherlock's lithe, lanky body. For as long as he could remember, he had always had a plan that was followed to the letter when he made any move. However, shooting Magnussen had been a spur of the moment affair that fueled something almost instinctual within Sherlock - to protect John, no matter what the cost.

The plane lifted off the ground and soared away. The east wind was taking him to his death.

_1 minute, 30 seconds_

Sherlock couldn't place exactly when he had started to realise how much John meant to him. Maybe it was as soon as John had stepped out of the shadows with a vest of explosives strapped to his chest. Maybe it was when he was on the rooftop of St. Bart's and Moriarty had threatened to put a bullet through John's head. Maybe it was when John was the only reason Sherlock felt it was worth coming back to London for after dismantling Moriarty's network. All he knew was that John Watson kept him from destroying himself with his own intelligence, and he needed him.

And, if the occasion ever arose, Sherlock would always save John before he saved himself.

_1 minute, 50 seconds_

The reality that he would never see John again began to settle in. The ache that was in his chest spread to his stomach. It really was obvious - the turbulence of the small plane was making him nauteous.

It had nothing to do with the fact that he felt as if his heart was going to burst. Nothing at all. Sherlock drummed his fingers as he tried to deduce the only other person in the plane, the pilot. _Has two large dogs, both shed easily. Has a child, probably a little girl, who was up most of the night. His wife didn't feel well, so he was up with her._

At the thought of a baby girl, the Sherlock's stomach did a triple backflip.

_2 minutes, 15 seconds_

Sherlock had tried so hard. He had told himself that he was married to his work, and deduced every reason John wasn't in love with him.

That hadn't worked. John had made himself a fixture, a constant, in Sherlock's life. He had wormed into every thread of who Sherlock was.

As they had stood in front of the aircraft, Sherlock had come to a realisation. Now, as he sat alone, his revelation mocked him.

He loved John Watson, and there was nothing he could do about it.

_2 minutes, 45 seconds_

He loved John Watson. Sherlock let himself drown in that thought. If only he hadn't been such a coward. He had been able to throw himself off a building, tear down the most powerful consulting criminal's network, and return to London without missing a beat.

Yet, even as he was getting sent to his death, he hadn't found the strength to tell John that he loved him. He had downplayed everything, going as far to joke around with his friend. It had torn his insides to shreds, but one good thing had come of this.

He had seen John's smile for one last time. He had implanted that smile in his mind and let it flow through his body.

That smile would be his last thought when he died.

_3 minutes, 0 seconds_

Sherlock wondered if John would think of him. Would John wonder what had happened to him after six months, or would he be too immersed with Mary and the new baby to care? If by some off chance he did find out that Sherlock was dead, would he care?

Did John care about him? Even if Sherlock had never told John directly how he felt, he knew that his actions showed that he would do anything for John. Sherlock didn't want to know the answer. What if John knew everything Sherlock was feeling, but just decided to ignore it?

That would hurt more than anything.

_3 minutes, 15 seconds_

Suddenly, the pain became too much for Sherlock to bear. The detective sank back in his seat and held his head in his hands. He felt tears slip down his face, falling into his navy blue scarf. His thin shoulders shook with silent sobs. The fragile life he had built for himself had been destroyed by one gunshot. He was nothing but a murderer, and there would be no second chances.

He was no better than the men and women he put behind bars.

_3 minutes, 55 seconds_

Sherlock's phone rang. The sound startled the detective, and he sat bolt upright. It was Mycroft. After sending Sherlock into exile, why would he call? The childish side of Sherlock wanted to ignore the call by throwing his phone out the plane's window, but he found himself wiping away a few renegade tears, clearing his throat, and answering the phone.

In his normal voice, Sherlock snapped, "Mycroft."

_4 minutes, 0 seconds_

"Hello, little brother. How has the exile been going?" Mycroft's tone was clipped.

"I've only been gone four minutes." Sherlock knew the time exactly. He had been counting.

"Well, I certainly hope you've learnt your lesson," Mycroft said. Sherlock could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "As it turns out, you're needed."

Sherlock's heart lifted and the pain in his stomach disappeared. John. He could see John again. "Oh, for God's sake, make up your mind," Sherlock drawled in order to hide his thrill. "Who needs me this time?"

Mycroft paused. "England. He's back."

The detective knew exactly who his brother meant - Moriarty.

Sherlock felt as if his entire world made sense again. Even though Moriarty was back, he had been given a second chance. He would see John again, would get the chance to tell him what he meant. He could regain his status, and this time, he would take Moriarty down for good. No criminal would ever be able to take him away from John again.

_4 minutes, 10 seconds_

Sherlock smirked as the plane turned around and turned up his coat collar.

The game was on.


End file.
